Meh, Who Cares?
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: A series of short ficlets, ranging from hair-breadth escapes to fireside chats in the sitting room. Titled after a conversation with my dear KCS, ranging
1. Gray

A/N: Yes! A new fic for you to enjoy or ignore, or simply read without reviewing if that is your wish dear readers.

Actually reviews would be much appreciated. Because I love reviews and they make me write faster!

My answer to the "WhythedevildoesHolmesalwayswearanoldgraydressinggown" question.

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"You must not think I'm sulking when I do that," he said, "Just leave me alone and I'll be all right."

The first time the black cloud descended, he retreated to the settee, wrapped in a horrid, brown flannel dressing gown.

His new flatmate glanced up from his book and said nothing when he began to fill the room with smoke. The room grew dark and foggy as the night outside the windows and it suited his mood so he stayed where he was, basking in his displeasure.

In the early hours of the morning he was awoken by a shower of cold water tossed at his head. He gasped and sputtered and glared at the sleep-tousled veteran holding a dripping basin.

Kindly the Doctor ignored his curses and pointed out the soggy pipe and smouldering remains of his dressing gown.

Holmes stalked to his room loathing the world in general. He'd found justification for his skulking and intended not to come out of his room for several days.

That was until the appearance of a new, mouse-gray dressing gown was shoved under his door, proving him—for one of the few times in his life—utterly wrong about the world and the people in it.


	2. Belief

A/N: Next one! Will become more regular I promise. The prompt for this one came from Medcat aka Cat. So thanks to her.

For everyone else, I will be getting to every prompt in time. Please if anyone has any suggestions for a drabbley fic, please keep them coming.

And thanks to everyone who has reviewed! I'm sorry I didn't respond this time around, shaky start for school, but things are running smoothly now.

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"I believe your stalwart Doctor is something of a coward, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes clutched at the mantle, legs shaking with his weight as he straightened his back.

"He left because he trusts me." Said the detective quietly. "He believes in my abilities, even if it means he must leave me behind."

"So he throws you to the wolves because you tell him too? Dear me! That is friendship indeed! That level of blind obedience." Sterling reached into his pocket and drew out a revolver, spoiling his casual stance.

Holmes tried to calm his shaking, if he was to meet his death now he would meet it upright with his eyes open.  
Sterling smiled, leveled the gun, and sighted.

A bullet ripped through the still air of the old house, its roar echoing in the cavernous room, disturbing decades of dust. Holmes' legs gave out, and he slid to the floor, but not before Sterling, who was clutching a bloody arm.

"Not blind obedience, Mr. Sterling." Watson said, leaving the shadows of the hall. "Holmes trusts my abilities as well."

He leveled his own, smoking revolver and smiled. "And if you ask me, sir, that is friendship."


	3. Off We Go!

**This one isn't from a prompt, its just to stir up the autumn blues. **

**If any of you fine readers have prompts send them on, in a PM or a review, I'm not picky, If you think 'em I'll write 'em for you. I just need ideas! Something like: **

**"Dear PGF, I've always wanted to see Holmes crash a bicycle."**

**or **

**"What would happen if a tiger got loose in Baker street?"**

**or even**

**"What would Holmes do if Watson ate the last piece of Mrs. Hudson's chocolate cake!?!"**

**Anything that tickles your fancy, send in the unwanted bunnies. **

**Thanks also, to everyone who reviewed, I know I didn't respond to every one of your kind comments. I'm getting better though. Be patient with me. **

* * *

It was a drab gray morning. The sun made a pathetic effort to poke through the overcast smog that enveloped the overstuffed city. The cheap, fuzzy light that seeped through the windows made the world look like cotton...even the fireplace with its dull, blackened hearth. It seemed as though I could reach out and pluck at it with my fingers and unravel it with very little effort.

Instead I allowed myself to sink further into the cushions of the settee, burrowing into the covers that had somehow appeared after I'd fallen asleep. It was chilly enough to be annoying, but still too warm to merit a coat. By the sky it would probably be drizzling all day which meant damp clothing unless one made oneself a spectacle by carrying an umbrella.

I had no real demands on my time, but there were several folders of paperwork I could be finishing.

Also Mrs. Hudson was out.

It would be a day of bland food, uncomfortable clothing and unpleasant, mediocre weather. I cringed at the thought of it and closed my eyes again, perhaps it would look better in an hour.

I was nearly asleep again, my thoughts becoming heavy and muddled when the ingrained sound of a revolver blast made me leap off the sofa and fall to the floor in a heap of covers.

Turning my head in the direction of the smoke I saw a familiar figure, half-dressed, holding his hair trigger out before him.

He lowered the weapon with a smug smile, his morning pipe dangling from his lips.

"There." He said triumphantly, turning his benevolent smile to me as though I should share in his delight. "The tail of the R was a little off, it has been bothering me for some time now. But no matter…"

He thrust the deadly arm into the pocket of his dressing gown and tossed the whole carelessly onto his armchair.

"What do you say to a visit to the Northumberland Bath's Watson? There is a distinct chill in the air and it cannot bode well for your Ghazi souvenir."

He stopped, and seemed to notice for the first time that I was gawking at him from the floor.

"My Word Watson, you look like a lion whose just had his tail trod upon. Do tame your hair old fellow."

My hair could hardly be called a mane, as it was still quite military short and only half as light…nevertheless it seemed to have become somewhat wild during my rest.

As I struggled to extricate myself from the various afghans and blankets my friend had seen fit to smother me with while I slept, he made his way to his room and emerged a short while later with one arm through his jacket and his shoes in one hand.

He tossed something at me and it bounced off my nose before I managed to catch it…a very crumpled telegram.

"Alfie brought it." Holmes muttered through a mouthful of cravat. "We have three hours before we meet him…stir yourself."

Or at least, that is what I understood him to say…it was hardly that articulate.

When he'd secured every garment safely about his person he made his way to the chemical table and announced grandly that he was "Making Tea".

I was rereading the name on the telegram, quite surprised that anything so unique and intriguing should be brought to my friend out of the blue, but then Alfie seemed to have a knack for attracting such cases. If I was the stormy petrel of crime he was the figurehead of the misadventures which Holmes craved.

And very rarely left us in one piece.

"Go on and dress old fellow, if your game."

Holmes hand paused upon a beaker in sudden thought, the Bunsen burner flaring to life to cast a living flame onto his face, dissolving the drab, cotton effect.

"You are game aren't you?" his black brow knitted with sudden apprehension.

I struggled to my feet. "Two sugars please."

He smiled and I climbed the stairs to change…and fetch my revolver.


	4. Weight and Worth

**This is for my readers, the old and especially the new. I'm not very good at responding to your reviews, but I've read every one of them and they mean more to me than you might think. I'm frankly honored and will try to update my fics with all speed. You're all brilliant. **

**-PGF**"Are you alright?"

* * *

"Hmm?" Watson shook himself, tearing his gaze away from the passing battlements and the distant windows that slipped out of sight behind them, like a secret he'd been privy too. To think…to think that only a few minutes ago he has stood in that room as…

Holmes face was glowing with amusement as he observed his friend, his gray eyes danced with merriment, catching flashes of sunlight that passed through the overcast sky.

"Have you completely overhauled your patriotic sensibilities, old fellow?" he murmured.

"Quite," Watson responded in the manner of one who hasn't even heard the question.

Holmes chuckled, "I think you can relax now. You'll strain your back if you make it any straighter."

The good Doctor rolled his shoulders, obeying his friend's voice automatically. As though this loosened something in his head he smiled, no _beamed_ was a more appropriate term, and said with a voice still soft with wonder. "It was amazing…wasn't it?"

"Remarkable," Holmes drawled with a smirk. "I find it interesting that her majesty eats things as common as blackberry jam."

"Holmes!" Watson looked instantly scandalized, the detective swore later that he could see his moustache bristle. "You were studying her attire? The whole time?!

Holmes laughed unrepentantly, "Well there was little enough to engage my attention in that mausoleum. I always find ceremony to be a very tedious affair?"

"Even when it's meant to honor you?"

"Especially then."

"Heaven help up us if you're ever offered a knighthood." Watson looked down at the modest medal pinned to his lapel and touched it with something bordering on reverence. "I was greatly honored by it."

Holmes slumped elegantly "Yes, well, you're military, old boy. More accustomed to these things. All pomp and boot-polish." He looked down at his own trinket and raised an eyebrow, as though it were a garish butterfly that had dared to land on his coat.

And at its own peril.

A smile tugged at Watson's mouth, despite his stiff disapproval. Visibly struggling to maintain control he said. "I thought your brother was remarkably familiar with her majesty."

"Oh Brother mine interacts with her on at least a bi-weekly basis. And that's when the empire's not in crisis. Mind you it was a pleasant surprise to see him called to heel. Our own mother couldn't do that." He removed the medallion as the last of the battlements passed out of sight. A skeptical frown crawled onto his face as he hefted it. "We must be running short of bullion. I for one would hawk this thing for a decent meal…I'm starving."

He blinked as a hand stretched across and quickly rescued the bauble. Watson tucked it away into his own pocket with a long, low, sigh.

"Why don't we spare it and _I'll _pay for your lunch, eh?"

Far more interested Holmes piqued up, always and forever like some boisterous hound with a scent. "Simpson's?"

"That is the general idea."

The detective smiled and it was mirrored on the Doctor's face. "Good, I shall consider it the greatest honor I have received all day, my dear Watson."

His tone was casual, his manner not unusual…but there was a weight to that sentence that only Watson picked up on.

It settled in his chest and suddenly made the weight of the trinket on his coat seem rather cheap, by comparison.

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**Like i said, teh reviews, tehy weighs heavily. Lots of requests so far, I'm going to get to all of them, be on the lookout!**


	5. Eep!

**This is from three sources, One is IrregularHonour's prompt: "Milveton's maid finds out who her erstwhile "fiance" was!"**

**The second is the boy in the neighboring apartment who makes me to duck out of sight every time he passes my bloody window. How do you tell a guy "NO" in a way he can understand!"**

**The third is from the Granada's _Charles Augustus Milverton, I always thought seeing Holmes kiss anyone would make the world explode. Especially Jeremy Brett's rendition. But I love that episode and his welsh accent to death._**

* * *

I am not unaccustomed to my friend's eccentricities. Not even when certain of those eccentricities have caused the most stoic of men, military or otherwise, to flee screaming from our sitting room.

(I have since spoken to him about keeping various severed, anatomical objects out of our butterdish.)

That being said, he has never lost the ability to surprise me. It is my belief that in addition to biographer, sounding board, and companion, Holmes also regards me as an instrument of measurement. The day he ceases to surprise me is the day he claims he will retire.

I do not know whether to be insulted or pleased by this. Hopefully my blood pressure and my patience will last long enough for me to decide.

But it has made for interesting living. And not all of the surprises are negative or irresponsible. One fine spring morning in 1900 I had occasion to be quite amused by my friend's antics.

During those last few years at Baker street, it became more difficult to roust Holmes from his rooms than it ever had in the past. This is hardly his fault, it is understandable that after nearly fifty years among humanity, one would rather remain indoors than have to deal with their ilk.

On this occasion it had taken Mrs. Hudson, myself, and an exploded teapot to force him out of doors.

The positive side of the change in my friend was that, once out of doors, he was more content to stay.

Thus he was quite cheery as we made our way through Regent's, and on into an open air market where vendors were hawking everything from fresh fruit to brass doorknockers.

Our discussion on the benefits of motorcars versus cabs (a topic we have long disagreed over) was suddenly cut short when he vanished from my side.

I looked about in vain for his whipcord profile, growing somewhat agitated when I realized that even if I could make sense of the chaos around me, he could remain unseen if he wanted too.

Then I felt a tug on my trouser leg and bent to look underneath a stall bearing various bed-linens.

"Holmes!" for he was indeed folded into the small space like a jack-in-the-box, thin hand on my leg, "What the devil are you—"

"Shh!" His finger quivered as he held it to his lips, and I perceived that he was almost shock white. "Don't be conspicuous, Watson."

"That's a fine thing for you to say! Diving under here, whatever is the matter?"

If there was in truth some danger than it must be immense for him to cower so, I'd only ever seen him that disturbed once, and that was the night he'd scrambled over my back garden wall muttering about air-guns.

He frowned at me for a moment then hissed unhappily. "_She_ is here."

For most, that statement would not have been helpful, but Sherlock Holmes gave that distinction to only a handful of people and a few of them were dead.

"Who?" I asked as his eyes darted about nervously, examining the legs of the passing crowd.

"The girl who—" he cut off with a strangled noise of mortification and shoved my head back out from under the stall.

I cursed when his clumsiness made me crack my head on the wood, and I straightened with my eyes watering.

"Are you alright, dear?"

I turned, rubbing my cranium and eyes alternately, and muttered to whatever sympathetic soul it was.

It was some moments before my eyes finally cleared to see a young lady in respectable garments.

Thanks to years of observing Holmes' methods, I was able to see that she was well off, a working woman but with enough to spend on things like a nice hat and a pewter throat clasp.

I wondered briefly if this was the woman Holmes had meant, and apparently my face was as readable as ever, because she saw my gaze drift down to his hiding place.

"Did you drop summat?"

She bent before I could stop her and lifted the edge of the sheets draped in her way.

There was the briefest instant of mortified silence and then an almighty shriek of rage.

The stall nearly upended as the woman tried to force herself deeper inside and my friend emerged stumbling into the sunlight.

He stopped for nothing, but took off, weaving through the crowd of people.

The woman came in hot pursuit, calling him all manner of names most of which were not suitable to her station.

By the time I caught them up, the poor fellow had a swelling eye, a split lip and had been cornered by some rubbish bins. He tried feebly to fend her off whilst she used her handbag (which was remarkably heavy) to all advantage.

Her tirade, which I could make no sense of, continued amidst his feeble protests of, "Aggie…wait…Aggie! Stop!...Listen!..."

Seeing me, Holmes slumped in relief and managed to catch hold of her wrist, "Watson! Help!"

But by now the pieces had clicked together in my head and I was less than ready to interrupt.

"Two to one would hardly be fair," I countered, "Show her your straight left, old fellow."

From the look he gave me I might have been the loathsome serpent from Eden itself.

Luckily, "Aggie" had also taken notice, for she wrenched her hand free of Holmes' grip and stood back, cheeks flushed, and quivering with anger.

"Is this _man_ your friend?" she asked me.

"Yes indeed," I smiled in what I hoped was a placating manner, I had no wish to be on the receiving end of that temper.

"Well he deserves a right thrashin'!" She snapped.

Holmes slowly straightened, nursing an elbow.

"It looks like you've given him one…Mrs. Escott, I presume?"

She looked at me more closely, her dark eyes glinting, she appeared a sharp little thing, and suddenly I understood how Holmes could stand to be "engaged" to the woman for any length of time.

"So…he's told you about it has he? Bet you both thought it was a right joke. I've a mind to turn 'im in!"

"Milverton was a scoundrel and you know it," Holmes muttered softly. "You were well free of him, Aggie."

I was amused, though not surprised that his voice had trailed off into a vaguely welsh accent.

This only prompted her to glare at him again. The hurt clearly evident on her face, and her dark eyes luminescent with more than just rage.

"Mrs. Escott," she turned as I addressed her in the most cordial manner I could. "I do believe my friend owes you an explanation, and an apology. Would you be good enough to take some tea with us?"

Holmes gave me a look of desperate mortification…but it was no less than he deserved.

The tea went well. Our companion was indeed a witty and rather charming conversationalist.

Upon learning Holmes' identity, and after many fervent apologies (from both of us) a truce was formed, though she reserved the right to thrash him again should he ever presume to use another woman as he had used her.

She left him with a kiss on the cheek and a face as red as mine (though my own was from suppressed laughter).

She still sends him a Christmas card every year.

* * *

**I was going to apologize...but i'm too amused. Hate it or rate it.**


	6. Sugar and Competition

**This is the result of chasing my roommates with a tub of frozen yogurt and ending up in a swimming pool.**

* * *

"Good morning, Holmes."

"Good morning, Watson."

I hid a yawn behind my hand, tightened the tie on my dressing gown, and scratched my neck.

It was only then, that I bothered to look up.

"Is there a reason why you're hanging from the ceiling?"

"A very good one, Watson," said my red-faced friend.

"Because I'd love to hear it."

"I assure you…"

"Was it an accident?" I poured myself a cuppa.

"Not exactly…"

"Are you perhaps measuring the effect of mold growth on our crossbeams?" I buttered some toast and took a healthy bite.

"If you'd let me explain…"

"Mmph."

Holmes pouted, which did not have quite the same effect upside down.

"I didn't understand that, Watson."

I swallowed.

"It's alright, I don't understand you either."

"I was trying to ascertain how far I could climb across the room without touching the ground…"

"And you got stuck…"

"And I miscalculated."

"You've been at the cocaine again."

"Watson!"

"You look absolutely ridiculous."

"And you're jealous of my obvious athletic ability!" Holmes scowled.

I set down my breakfast. "Bet I can make it farther than you."


	7. BBC, with some commentary on reinvention

**I don't know how these keep turning into semi-dialogue fics, perhaps its the result of having these voices in my head.**

**:D**

**This one is utterly ridiculous. You have been warned. And yes, it is a sequel to the last. **

**

* * *

**

"Well this is…interesting…"

"I could think of a lot more words to describe it than that."

"We're not competing any more, Watson. You lost. Accept it."

I glared at him, "Because of your abnormally long legs, and because you stepped on the table. That was against the rules."

Holmes allowed a puff of keeking smoke to escape his mouth and jabbed his pipe in my direction. "No. I said that _you_ were not allowed near my chemical table. I had a very delicate experiment set out."

"Which you spilt."

"Our current subject," said Holmes, raising his voice significantly. "Is this television program…what, pray tell dear Doctor, is your opinion of it?"

"I don't understand most of it," said I, staring at the horseless carriages and profuse lights in confusion. "What on earth is a _mobile phone_?"

"I'm not sure but I want one." Holmes tapped his tobacco ash out against his knee.

"How did we even get this television set?

"I like the lead…he's bright."

"And also quite rude. You don't like him you like his coat."

"Don't you think it would benefit my general appearance?"

"Do you think I should shave my moustache like that?"

Holmes' eyes widened in abject terror at the glowing screen, "Point taken…I beg of you not to."

"Don't worry I didn't plan to." I was rather fond of the feature in question.

Holmes must have detected some measure of smugness in my voice, for his eyes narrowed again as he glared at me. "Jude Law was an unfortunate inflation of your ego, Watson…and incidentally he was also quite rude."

"But he too had a marvelous coat."

He frowned at me, "Accurately observed. Still I think I prefer this, overall."

"I do as well."

We watched in silence for several moments.

"…I think a skull would be very beneficial."

"No, Holmes."

* * *

**Don't get me wrong, I love Martin Freeman. But the necessary lack of mustache still made me sad. **


	8. Banter before Dinner

**I was planning on something longer, but my muse is still being uncooperative. My conversation with him actually went a little like this, and he stopped sulking long enough to produce a few words about it. **

**Nothing but domestic, buddy-love, fluff.**

**And some allusions to off-screen plant deaths.**

**

* * *

**

"You haven't moved since I left this morning."

Holmes sighed and settled deeper into the sagging cushions of the much abused settee. The pillows were comfortable; he had his dressing gown and his pipe, even if it had gone out. Why should he concern himself with Watson's strange obsession with migration?

Besides, that ceiling crack was beginning to look absolutely fascinating.

"I think the pattern of that cushion is becoming engrained on your face."

Holmes frowned around the pipe, but said nothing. Talkative people were like yappy dogs. If you acknowledged them even for an instant they would be all over you. This was even truer for Watson himself.

The man could make friends with a cactus.

"And your cactus is dead, by the way. I tried to water it, now and again. But really Holmes, the thing was your responsibility. I thought you'd learned your lesson after the Aspidistra Tragedy."

He snatched the pipe out of his mouth.

"There is no need to give a sensational title to every event in our lives, Watson. Or would you like to start referring to tea time as 'The Great Steak and Kidney Affair'."

Watson smiled, and his blue eyes seemed to spark with a secret mirth. Curse him.

"If that would encourage you to remember tea time more often, I will certainly do so. Speaking of, I'm having dinner at my club tonight."

Holmes replaced the pipe and waved his hand in the manor of a bejeweled Rajah.

Watson cast him a considering glance.

"I don't suppose you'd like to accompany me? You're more than welcome."

The consulting detective snorted. "And listen to you and your chums chortle over port and South African Securities?"

"Because the pillows are so much more enthralling," Watson happily patted one of the cushions, a drooping maroon little thing that had come from who knew where. "I understand why you would prefer their company. You will have to recount all your adventures for me this evening. Try not to be too wild."

Holmes scowled as Watson went to fetch his coat, then sounding somewhat petulant said.

"You have the most infuriating habit of calling someone a boor in the politest terms."

"My mother was very cautious to teach me manners," said Watson.

Holmes hauled himself from the settee with a longsuffering sigh, and went to make a few ablutions.

As they left the flat he admitted. "She would have been a very interesting woman to know."

* * *

**Honestly think about it. Watson's mother must have been pretty amazing to produce a son like that. This might have to branch off a little...**


	9. Dinner at the Club

**Lets admit it, we all have secret desires to see certain "deleted scenes" that were never in the canon. I always wanted to know more about Watson's club, and how exactly Holmes came to know so much about it. Conclusion!: this**

* * *

The Lamberton club, just off of Leicester Square, was diverse for a gentleman's club. It catered to individuals from the scientific end, to less prestigious barristers, to remote country squires who rarely managed to set foot in the place.

These were all men stuck between upper and middle class, and who, quite frequently, brushed shoulders with all walks of life. They gathered to forget their wives, or their professions, and a sense of good-humor usually pervaded. e

The only real, unspoken requirement among the members was an answer to the question: 'are you game?'

More often than not an atmosphere of competition would arise, not in the way of serious card games or fierce political debate…but in a sense of daring do.

Most blamed the members with military backgrounds; for who else would be childish enough to suggest a game of billiards on the floor, tossing rings around the antlers of the musty stag head on the wall, or seeing who could stack the most shillings on Colonel Bentley's slumbering nose before the old bear awoke?

Either way, all agreed that it was never dull when the military members were present.

And one dreary evening in September, when Dr. Watson –formerly Captain-surgeon of the 66th Berkshires—entered the room, the atmosphere lifted at once.

"Look whose here then," said Gardiner, nudging his neighbor, and looking slightly relieved, for he was a Navy man, and the others had begun to look to him for '

"And not alone!"

More eyes turned as the Doctor entered the room, accompanied by a taller gentleman with his hands in his pockets.

Now strangers were not an unusual sight in the club, as mentioned, the atmosphere was open and easy-going. But Watson had been two three separate continents and dozens of countries, and everyone knew his guests were never dull.

"Thurston," Watson hailed his friend and crossed to him, drawing the other man with him as though on an invisible string. He was something of an odd fellow, far too slim to be an army acquaintance, fastidiously dressed, and looking decidedly uncertain of his surroundings. It was almost more of a puzzle what old Watson was doing with such an individual.

Many ears turned with seeming indifference to listen as introductions were made.

"Charles Thurston, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Thurston smiled, and shook the strangers' wiry hand. He waited until Watson left to see about brandy, and then took the opportunity to ask what everyone else was pondering at full pitch.

"Are you a great friend of the Doctors?"

"We met a few years ago," Holmes muttered, casting a look at his companion's retreating back. If he'd looked uncomfortable before, he was now like a cat in a room full of foxhounds.

"Just after he got back from India?" Thurston pressed, and now most ears around the room were listening intently. Watson had only joined the club a few years after, and did not talk much about his military campaigns. He told a lot of stories, but that is a different thing from talking.

"Yes," Holmes admitted, not oblivious to the increasing silence in the room. "A few months after, how do you know him?"

"Oh, just here in the club," Thurston shrugged casually, so as not to make the gentleman more uncomfortable. "Mainly over billiards. Do you play billiards, Mr. Holmes?"

"No."

"He's more of a boxing man," Watson interrupted, returning with drinks, one of which Holmes gratefully downed. "Already plaguing him are you?"

"A friend of yours is always of interest, John," Thurston smiled. "You haven't even told me what he's in for."

"Ah," said Watson with a smile. "Now that is a question worth asking isn't it, Holmes?"

Holmes gave his friend a dirty look over the empty glass.

Thurston looked from one to the other.

"It's something of a mystery what he does," Watson said, "Took me weeks to discover."

"You didn't discover it," Holmes said. "I told you."

"Well, are you going to tell Thurston?" Watson sipped more of his brandy.

Everyone agreed later, that while Watson's friend was quiet and reserved, his scowl was quite eloquent.

* * *

**Cuts off a little abruptly there, but trust me, its a good spot. **

**This will continue soon...**


End file.
